Meaning without Memory
by maleV
Summary: Piers is brought back from beneath the waters of China, only to find himself sorely lacking his mental capacities. How do you treat the infected when there is no cure? And what will happen when the symptoms suddenly start getting worse? A stand alone sequel to Do I Know You? NIVANFIELD
1. Prologue

**The sequel stand alone to Do I Know You? **

**I had had the intention of writing a sequel to this story for some time. However, you can never be sure something needs it directly running on the rush of that story alone, so I took some time. Read some reviews, and reread the entire story. I can't say it disappointed. This isn't meant to be a sequel that you have to read the original story for, thus its stand alone, however if you haven't, I suggest it. There is a fair amount of information there that you may want before moving on to this story. I'm running off a basic concept on this one, and I hope you guys enjoy it as much as the the first, though that's a tall order. Still! Without holding you up further. As always RESIDENT EVIL and all its characters do not belong to me, I don't profit off any of them. Except the sheer joy I get from keeping one Piers Nivans tied up and caged in the basement of my thoughts. **

**ENJOY!**

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Well. Such a relative term. As the doctor walked her rounds of the floor, scribbling away on her clipboard, she took the steel box elevator up four floors to the observation wing. This facility was a state of the art, built only a year ago with all the advanced equipment that they might ever need; modern in its architecture and its medical procedures. It was quarantined since the attacks in Tatchi, and other surrounding areas; chosen for its location, but more over. It had had its staff overhauled and replaced with B.S.A.A. and F.B.C. members only. Doctors and nurses who understood the viruses they'd come into contact with; as well as the break down of society and understood third world symptoms. Meaning when Tatchi went to hell, the neighborhoods surrounding it were thrown into chaos. They needed proper triage. Doct. Yeomin had been working the Chinese branch division of the Bioterrorism Security Assessment Alliance when she received the call that they were setting up a base camp to deal directly with those terrors. She'd also been the one who was on call for any B.S.A.A. agents that might require treatment, to which this building was specially designed for. The event was three months ago however, and now that the infected were properly tended to (euthanized), it was simple treating of civilians and move them back out in as fast a way as possible. Still a place for dealing out the inoculations against the C-virus as it ran rampant, as well as working with those who were being treated with experimental procedures to tolerate T-virus. Still, all that aside this was the least favorite part of Dr. Yeomin's day. Heading for the observation wing, the fourth floor of the hospital was dedicated to the recovery of any B.S.A.A. or F.B.C. agents who had been in the cross fire. They had even helped tend to a D.C. operative just a few days after the infection spread in downtown Tatchi, who they released back home after a few inoculations and a leg brace. It was exactly why people like her went into this field, so that they could help the survivors, no matter who it was, or where they came from. Someone had to clean up the mess their agents left behind in the field. Exactly why it was they had left her the most inconsiderate present the B.S.A.A. had ever provided her with. The ping of the sliding doors opening, announced her presence on the floor, getting a greeting from the passing nurses in their all white scrubs. Regulation on the observation wing was for all staff members to wear solid white, while the patients wore the blue. Emerging from the landing, she looked up, already thrust with the reality of what these soldiers sacrificed so that all those people in the hospital below, could go about living the rest of their twenty odd years. Those people weren't suppose to understand though. The B.S.A.A. should have known better than what they did. Damn them for making her deal with this day in and day out. Was it wrong to hope someone died for their own sake? She took an oath after all, to do no harm. Making him live through this day after day was harm... wasn't it?

Observation was named for it's huge dome picture windows overlooking the bay. The atrium below was filled with large trees, the branches reaching just to the bottoms of the immense windows. The buildings fourth floor was observing patients, but at least this was a more poetic way to look at it. It was to make those who were stuck on this wing, in the limbo of observation, feel less confined, so it shouldn't bother her that this was always where she knew she'd find him. That had been the point of the massive window, though unused by most. Huffing, the doctor crossed the hall toward the picture windows, staring uncomfortably at the back of the wheel chair; feet scuffling along on the linoleum flooring rather than making them clack with the sounds of her heels. Abandoned by the windows, the chair would remain; their resident Frankenstein monster leaning his weight on the one good arm he had against the massive window panes, forehead solidly planted against said forearm, whilst the other hung wrapped in mummified garb. Taking in a deep breath, the woman tucked up her clip pad under one arm, and pushed her ink black hair from her face; putting on her best pleasant smile, taking tiny steps to the wide panoramic and the splayed rays of light, watching as the daggers from the sun made the pupil of that one bad eye look more blind than usual. It was important not to stare, but when you were a doctor, no matter how uncomfortable, you had to examine your work, not fear it. "How are you this morning?" Mismatched eyes yanked away from what they had been transfixed upon, pooling in her direction as she came up beside the younger man. People used this window to relax, this one had another reason he stared at the window so long. They wouldn't give him a mirror after the accident, or the surgeries, and he liked to use the reflection off the giant panes to see what they refused to let him. The visage in the giant slabs of glass, staring at her as well. She never knew from one moment to the next, what kind of mood the soldier could be in. Weeks of surgery on this one. He had a regeneration factor, so surgical procedures didn't require the same amount of time to heal, nor did they have to wait for results, so when she said weeks of surgery it was far more than any person she had ever encountered. The one thing that needed it most, was the one thing she couldn't fix. He was damaged, having lost more in his lifetime than simply dying like most agents of the B.S.A.A. He was quiet though, so she had to press further. Spotting the finches that twittered in the trees below, popping from branch to branch fluttering their wings in the drizzling rain, she waited for another few minutes before attempting again. "Have you been up long? The surgeon in charge-"

"Recommends that I don't get up for more than thirty minutes at a time." So it was this then. Special Agent Piers Nivans. The first human being to ever have contracted and survived the enhanced C-Virus crafted by Carla Randames and Neo Umbrella. Of three vials of the viral load that was crafted to resist the inoculations made of the information gathered from the antibodies in Jake Wesker, formerly Muller. Brought back from the brink of death by his captain, Christopher Redfield of the B.S.A.A., and with that in mind, in horrible condition. Less of a man, than he was the infected. The B.S.A.A.'s surgical staff had done wonders for the man. Cleaned up his face of the torn and marred discolored flesh, did everything they could to make scars that would remain, to at least be as seamless as possible. After having done so, it was remarkable the strength of the virus itself and the effect it had over the remaining humanity of the former sniper. They were impressive, but the medical team here proved themselves to be a formidable foe for the C-virus, or at least... in the capacity of keeping it at bay. But still he carried the tell tale mark of that single silver eye, and dark lined veins that followed under his eyes and neck. He was graced with the residual side effect of regeneration, which made his scar tissue almost unnoticeable, apart from the way those darkened veins made it clear he wasn't entirely human. The entire right side of his body was riddled with infection, consistently required to remove the infected tissue. They replaced ribs as many as they could until it came to the spine. They couldn't complete reconstruction down to the core, the spinal column was riddled with infection, and continued to create a varying issue of making it impossible to retake the system completely. The most infectious of the tissue, had been the right arm; and its electrical impulses. Trial and error on taking the limb back, with injections of some viral antibodies. There were shots to be had of chemicals made to combat the virus, necessary every few hours that were to keep the stability of all remaining uninfected tissue and organs. It was exhausting, but at least he resembled a man again. A patch work of the dark lines and smooth fresh graphs of skin that so closely matched his own, though lacking the naturally tan flesh; and she couldn't help feeling partially responsible for the way his eye had suffered. Before the surgeries he had use of the damn thing, and his entire right side, though it was a massive lump of infected tissue. After his twenty second surgery, the limb stop responding, and soon after, it lost all feeling. Completely acceptable loss if it meant getting him clear of the mutated C-virus that ran rampant in his system, but this young man was a soldier. The acceptable loss she spoke of, was his livelihood. But then, having an arm at all he should have been pleased. The fact that it was a limp piece of useless flesh, made the soldier in him seem to deaden inside, however, it was dead already. With all the physically faulted aside, it was his mind she couldn't seem to fix. Agent Piers Nivans suffered from having an infected mind, it had scorched some damage of its own, and on any given day she didn't know which issue would raise its ugly head. Be it the retrograde amnesia, and his inability to remember what happened to himself before the injection, or the anterograde, which made it harder for him to remember what it was they tried explaining to him a thousand times. Piers Nivans was a wreck. Moments of lucidity like this one were a blessing..., however sometimes they were a curse.

"It's still difficult, I understand. But you're recovering."

"From what you tell me Doctor..., I'll always be recovering. Until I'm not, and I turn into one of those things, only not. One of a kind right? Its all the same when you need to put them down. Enough bullets to the brain stem. Just make sure its quick."

"_No one_, is talking about killing you agent Nivans. Lets just concentrate on getting you better." Seeing himself had been the first indication something was wrong with the soldier turned patient. Exhibiting the signs of shock, tried to dig his eye out with a scalpel that he'd gotten his hands on. Then they found out the reality. He couldn't remember what happened to himself, anything. The only thing he knew was the virus inside his head. He would scream for hours on end, they had to bind him down, which was easier said than done since the virus gave him strength he didn't remember having. The fact that they had let him up since them was a miracle, but it had been a while now, and he always came to the same spot to stare at himself, while they tried explaining who he was. Clutching her board, she marked down the clarity that his soldier-like mind took. Clarity was hard for this one to come by. But it was clear this soldier had been through too much, thrown to the edge and they couldn't bring him back without a lot of care. The only plus side to this particular mind set, was that the former sniper didn't fight what they were telling him, unlike the bad days... Hand in hand with that however, was that he no longer seemed to concern himself with the wellbeing of his person. At least on the bad days, he had a will to fight whatever happened to him, a way of keeping himself alive such as a defense mechanism, but it was all for nothing since hours later he would forget everything again and they would come back to square one. Most likely it was why the former agent had no visitors, adding to his chronic state of depression. He had no next of kin, nor family according to his records, and the generals wouldn't waste their breath on the sniper who couldn't remember anything but his own name. It was hard imagining that this young man was already by himself in the world. Captain Valentine came several times, at first, to make certain he would survive, and then she brought the captain... Damn that man. In people suffering with amnesia, the ability to recall _immediate information_ is still retained, meaning that man... he had started the chain reaction. He had formed his own new memories within this younger man. Ones that had no right being there according to her, not if he was going to never come back. The coward. "You want to go for a walk? It won't do you much good, staring at yourself like this."

"No place to go, Doctor. I'm a liability, remember? Not that I'm passing the opportunity doctor, but as you know, you can only see so many dying men before you'd rather watch the birds." He wasn't watching the birds, he was watching that silver eye. Another reminder that he wasn't really a man anymore. There was silence for a long while and then a sigh, Piers straightening up with a grimace.

"You have a point Agent, you have a point." Smiling, she put out a hand out, resting it on the single stagnant arm; watching it not respond to the contact in the slightest. Leading Piers with a slight tug back into his chair, declining aid. Easier done when you have a counter balance, but he managed it with grace, complaining not at all, but a single grunt as his weight dropped back into the seat of it, clutching the useless limb to his chest and across. Lifting his feet, the good doctor began pushing away, heading away as the rays of light were left behind for the great cloud colored hallways of his prison. "You know it's suppose to get cold soon. I never imagined winter to seem so bleak. What is it like in the United States this time of year, hm? Tell me what it's like where you grew up."

"He didn't come today?"

Wincing, the doctor kept on her other fake smile. Captain Chris Redfield. That son-of-a-bitch. Showed his face for the first day and then disappeared in a flurry when the B.S.A.A.'s S.O.U. team came calling on him. Whatever he'd done, had left an impression. Said something, done something, but whatever it was it left this soldier asking after him. She'd asked, inquired about the captain's actions, and yet Piers couldn't remember. His mind wasn't capable of holding onto that concept, whatever it had been. It was before the surgeries, and now he'd left him, alone here, questioning day after day. Where was he, who was he? All she could do was smile, and give another reassuring smile. "I'm sorry, soldier. Maybe tomorrow. Let's get you back into bed."

'Mhm'

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**Good to be back.**


	2. Reluctance

Mahogany twitched, beneath their lids, capable of seeing things that a waking human failed with uttering. Muscles involuntarily spasmed as visions danced before his unseeing eyes; the haunting images worming into the cranium until nothing left of consciousness could convince the mind that those simple touches had in their least been those that were impossible. He'd left something behind in China, something more important than these mission runs, and yet dictated by them. Hazel eyes, and their singular manner of exposing the truth behind one single captivating stare; and yet portrayed nothing of their own expressive nature, nothing emotional to be seen of their very own. The memories hurt, and with a start, the captain of S.O.U.'s Alpha Team came free of his hypnotic state within sleep, to the fanning of chopper blades, shaking his head. He couldn't go back. Not after what he'd seen. What he'd done. the full power of guilt of what had happened there in China had come back on the B.S.A.A. full throttle, and with the samples of C-Virus released the world came before his feelings. A soldier defended the weak. That was the line he always remembered hearing, in the same voice that goaded him to return to the field in his own time of rehabilitation. How had it been so simple to bring himself back, to remember himself and those around him then, and yet so impossible to bring back the one thing that had mattered most? Pushing the thought to the back of choked memories, the captain turned his eyes toward the sun that settled upon the horizon, shining over the sea in a way that glimmered and reflected the vermillion rays back at him. Perhaps it was had been revealing the truth of what all the events leading up to China had done, had meant to him, the steadfast way they had gone together through the pits of hell, but Chris Redfield could never again look into those vacant hazel eyes.

They were partners. How could there be anything that could bring such a bond apart? There were endless trials between the two, and even then there was the perseverance that would not give, could not give. As a captain of the B.S.A.A. someone would have expected, everyone expected that he would have been the rock, the brace that his team fell back on for support. But ever since Edonia, ever since his memory suffered trauma thanks to his own stupidity, it was his own partner holding him up. There were reasons of course, but it should never have been that way. Piers Nivans was a soldier pure and simple. He was the one to pull their team, steadfast and strong in the face of adversity, to challenge Chris when he needed it most. That had been his job, and he'd failed. His failure, was nothing short of abysmal. There were a thousand reasons that Chris should have retired all those months ago, put another in charge of his line of work. He'd wanted to. He'd wanted nothing more than to throw down his arms and give up the good fight, put it in the hands of someone younger, someone ready to face the challenges ahead, and now there lay nothing. No one. And it was his fault. Because his failures, he had lost the right to complain against his job, to decline missions, his failures had led to a loss that he could never come back from. And this was the penance he had to pay. That..., or to return to China and come back with the one who was truly fit to lead these men. To do that however, he'd need a time machine. The strong a sturdy warrior who'd led them to a victory in China, was not the same man he had dragged forth from the sea. He was a shell..., gone. There was nothing left of him but the scars he carried in place of his captain. Scars that should have littered his body, his arms, ribs, and face. Those marks belonged to him, and those were lodged in his mind..., and on the only hero he had ever known.

Lolling a magazine in hand, Chris momentarily questioned the validity of the well know 'game' he'd learned in Russia, but then a man such as Chris would never in his life question his own. It seemed too petty and childish, too easy to give up when the very reason he was here to make up for the younger man that should have been in his place. There was no making up for that. No one could replace Piers. Not the bravado, courage, and pure determination that that man had. Still, the least he could do was this. Cramming the full mag into the base of his 9-0-9 hearing the click and whir of the mechanism as he locked the weapon back into serviceable use. The inaudible command of action caused a chain reaction, thirteen weapons locking and loading in quick succession behind him. No.., no time for feeling bad for himself. Another ten years of this and maybe then he could afford to stop and reflect, stop or die. In true honesty, there was no number of years, no great deed he could complete, that would make up for what he'd done, for what he'd let Piers do for him. The look on his face as the needle pierced his mangled limb after saving Chris already more than once. He took the last sacrifice that was meant for Chris to take. He was meant to save Piers, raise him up to captain, say good bye to him and die the way he had always seen himself go. The water would suck him down into the darkness, and there would be nothing left of the late Captain Christopher Redfield. Piers would mourn sure, but he was a soldier, he'd carry on. And the world would have its new shining star, new hero to look up to; one worthy of the praise. Instead, instead he'd let Piers do it. Let him puncture his last remaining humanity with that needle. He'd saved them sure, but there would be no going back. No matter how much he loved the man, no matter how bond in fate their were. Piers wouldn't miss it, him. No, better off he stayed away. Time he got back to what he was really good at, and stopped failing to save the one person worth saving.

"Saddle up boys."

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Probing finger tips, traced and mapped the every path they took; up from well formed bicep, ever downward toward the crook of his elbow where other veins and surgical scars met, picking halfheartedly at the four IV lines that pumped fluids deep down into an unseen networking of re-purposed veins. No touch went felt, no singular dew drop of fluids, no matter the blood that welled at the injections sites as yet another nurse padded Piers to remove his fingers from his own limb, examining it like a piece of foreign equipment that wasn't mean to be there. Once another thirty seconds had passed, those same probing fingers returned to the same sites, working ever downward to the joint site where the surgeries had created darker lines to follow, the ones that recreated fingers and his palm. Pinching the tip of the middle and forefinger, admiring each joint and knuckle that the doctors had put together in jigsaw form. It seemed to baffle him, even as each finger was curled in systematically to check their use, if they had ever had use, he had to manually do it with his other hand. "What are they giving me?" The nurse hummed in response, dabbing away drops of blood that were immediately disposed of to save those at risk of infection simply by treating the once sure shot soldier. They never spoke much, those women who doted on him and treated his 'infection.' Nor would they go into detail about the infection. Today was different however, the network of intravenous fluids hadn't been needed until this moment, it was always injections; and the fact he could remember that, did not encourage nurses to speak at length with the goldfish like memory, to engage him in capacity. They ignored him, except to slap away his working hand whenever they fussed too long at the rubber tubes near the junctions examining his non-functional limb. Watching her go, the younger man sighed looking down at the extremity as a foreign entity, looking away from it in resentment, until another surge of pain stabbed through every joint, stifling a groan through grit teeth, turning his face away as every muscle gave a single throb, color flooding his face at the intensity of the pain, the ache all the way down to the bone and within it. It was agonizing, made every inch of his body hurt in a way that had beads of sweat forming at the hairline, down the back of his neck. The limb itself never moved, not upon his commands, but the muscles throbbed in agony, had been causing pain for the last few days, week, hiding it from the doctors nurses. Thank the gods they never asked him too many questions, never looked too close because it made them uncomfortable. He could feel his pulse within his neck and arms, attempting to still the tremors before someone else came in at his increased heart rate.

Rocking with the pain that surged through it, clawing at the I.V.s that hung from that useless limb, limply dangling unable to fight back. It was only a matter of time. You bring a man back from death, death would come for him, or torture him until he could no longer handle the pain. Wincing at the added pain, the former sniper sat back against the constantly made hospital bed, writhing on it. He'd made the choice long ago, hearing the echoing voices of doctors in his heads, talking of treatments, years of surgeries, experiments. That's what made the choice. He may not remember who he'd been, what purpose he'd served in life, but it certainly wasn't this, and to hear the twisted lies, and venom that spewed from their lips. Damn if he would ever turn into the monster he'd heard tales of. It was like a nightmare. Hearing the stories that people whispered in the corners of this place. He would have shared their fear to look upon him, the hideous silver orb that stared back at him without sight in every reflective surface. The creature they spoke of was something he couldn't imagine was him, and then the spark in his core, surging in his chest. "Everything okay in here?" One of the nurses poked her head in, noting the pallor of his face, the sweat pouring down his features, as he shook his head, unable to answer apart for wheezing for air. He didn't want this. Any of it. "Doctor!" Biting into his tongue, blood welled from the soft tissue in his mouth, welling at the corners of plush lips, shaking as the doctor came screeching to a halt in the door, her eyes wide as she stared. They all stared. No one could get close, not with what they were seeing. Intravenous tubes had stared to scorch together, the rubber tubes melting together until trim fingernails had begun to rip them free, tearing them out in a large clump of wires and tubes that bore holes in his flesh, blood spurting from the nook in that dangerous former weapon. It gushed between thin digits, pushed out in gushes with every beat of his rapid heart. "Get a med team in here, everyone gets sterilized. Now." Bewildered eyes flashed up at the doctor, silence from the lot of them as sparks danced between fingertips, a surge of electromagnetic storm striking through and rebounded into a reconstructed body with enough force, that darkness encompassed the eyes.

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**If anyone remembers DIKY, you guys know how I am about build up. Sorry for the short chapter.**


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